


Model Misbehavior

by FallenSeraphs



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Implied/Referenced Past Abuse, Implied/Referenced Past Brainwashing, M/M, Mild substance abuse, Modeling hijinks, Modern Thedas, Multi, Present Tense, Rivals to Lovers, Zoolander AU, mild nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8597566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenSeraphs/pseuds/FallenSeraphs
Summary: Done for TBAA Glow Bang 2016. From Original Prompt: Zoolander AU.  Fenris and Anders are competing models in the fast-paced fashion industry.  They are bitter rivals but have never met in person.  One day, their managers have the brilliant idea to have them on the same photoshoot.  In a show of competitiveness, they don't say 'no' to anything the photographers ask for.





	1. Part One: The Threads of Thedas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Six_Lily_Petals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Six_Lily_Petals/gifts).



When Kirkwall is shrouded in nightfall, Hightown glitters. One of the most beloved fashion districts in the Free Marches, stores line its streets at every side with imports of all kinds. Whether one is in the market for an Antivan necklace (smelling only lightly of its former owner’s assassination), or for Orlesian makeup (so heavy it's indistinguishable from their masks), it can be found here. Many stores even carry a selection of very fine dwarven crafts that— if they are all to be believed— come directly from Orzammar.

On this night, in the midst of this metropolis, a crowd gathers around a large, semicircular television screen. They are a mass of draped silks, fur-lined coats, and tightly gripped shopping bags— all lured by the booming, friendly sound of Varric Tethras’ voice.

“Welcome to _Threads of Thedas_ ,” he begins, introducing himself as the host. He sits in a burgundy chair of cushioned leather, clad in a tailored wine vest, ponytail smoothed to perfection.

Opposite him on the screen sit two raven-haired twins, two sets of striking blue eyes twinkling with amusement, tilted toward each other on an intimately sized couch. Both are dressed in fitted black blouses, each sporting a deep purple tie embroidered with silver dragons. Despite the impeccable tidiness of the rest of their look, their collars have been left playfully open.

Varric shifts himself toward the pair, but keeps his focus on the audience. “We’re here tonight with two of my favorite misfits, model managers Garrett and Marian Hawke, to discuss the two hottest boys in fashion.”

Marian touches the tip of her tongue to her lip, then corrects him, as if issuing a challenge, “You mean the hottest _rivalry_ in fashion.”

Varric dodges her statement, “Marian, you took Fenris under your wing after his public disaster with ex-manager Danarius. How’s that working out?”

“Working out quite fine, I’d say. Danarius is rotting in a cell. Fenris has been acquitted, naturally.” Marian shrugs in a way egregiously disproportionate to her words.

As she speaks, the picture dissolves to grainy news footage of Fashion Week. In it, Fenris is on a runway, expression twisted— a feral canine, lyrium glowing blue. As the cameras flash, he advances swiftly toward the Empress of Orlais, his legs swinging up in kicks, arms jutting forward in ominous karate chops. “I mean, how much can you blame a model brainwashed by blood magic?”

The scene cuts back to Marian in her seat, “At least no one was actually hurt.”

“They ever find out why Danarius did it?” Varric asks.

“Apparently he was against more equal labor laws for elves,” she answers. “Anyway, what’s important is that our dear, broody Fenris— after drinking so much Aggregio pavali he now owns half the market share— is ready to get back on his feet.”

“Just wonderful,” Varric says, turning to Garrett and leaning in, “And how has Anders been handling the limelight?”

Garrett covers a chuckle with a cough into his fist. He gives his sister a knowing look, “Let’s not pretend we’re here for stale news, Varric. You brought us on for nothing less than this:  the juiciest, ugliest, _dirtiest_ gossip on our clients.”

Varric barks a laugh, “Patience, patience.” From under his cushioned chair, he pulls out the latest issue of _Rogue_ fashion and idly thumbs through its pages. “Now, it says here Anders and Fenris will be doing a shoot together for an avant-garde magazine. That can’t be right…”

“Ah,” Garrett grins, “ _Now_ we are getting somewhere.”

Marian is so pleased she hums, winking at the camera, “Your sources are correct.” She places a manicured hand on her twin’s and gives it a small squeeze, “Garrett and I are always jumping at the chance to work together. And what better stage for Fenris’ comeback than a shoot with Anders? You know, that Anders is just so hot right now.”

Garrett’s focus seems to fly off somewhere far, far away, “ _So_ hot.”

Varric shakes his head at them both, chiding, warm crinkles blossoming at the corners of his eyes, “Well, who would disagree? In any case, our team here at _Threads of Thedas_ has put together some clips in anticipation for the event. Live on tape.”

“A drama compilation,” Marian clarifies for him. She waggles her eyebrows at the viewer.

“Always to the point with you two,” Varric shines a smile at them that they both return in kind.

In Hightown, the huddled crowd of spectators watch as the montage begins. The mammoth screen bathes them in a wash of digital light. An introductory tune starts, up-tempo electronic, its heavy base reverberating through the streets.

_~~~~~~~_

The first clip focuses in on a pair of automated wooden doors, frosted windows engraved with the title _A Sanctum of Healing and Salvation_.  A blur stirs behind the glass panes before the doors mechanically push open, revealing Anders donned in scrubs. A repeating pattern floods the fabric—  a cartoonish tabby cat wearing a white suit, stethoscope, and glasses— declaring again and again that the doctor is ‘in _meow_ _’_. A light sheen of sweat mists his forehead. Strands of golden hair have broken loose from his ponytail, dark clumps sticking against his stubble, lost under his procedural mask.

“ _m_ Ah!” Anders pulls the mask from his face and smiles at the camera. “Well, hello there! You know, when I agreed to this, I didn’t expect you’d meet me _here,_ ” he says, though he doesn’t look at all put off. “I’m not exactly glamorous looking right now, am I? Should I fix that?” He folds his arms behind his head and cocks his hip.

Behind the automated doors— still open and waiting for Anders to exit—  a couple can be seen talking to the receptionist. The nameplate on the desk reads ‘LIRENE’ and she is shaking her head at the pair vigorously. The two, a husband and wife (apparent by the large ring on the woman’s left hand), alternate between uncomfortably long gazes at Anders and pleading looks at Lirene. The wife coughs in a way that is a little too forced. The husband grips his stomach and keels over with a theatric wail.

Anders glances over his shoulder long enough to see Lirene mouth _‘fakers’_ and returns his attention to the camera. “My talents in the ridiculously good-looking department got me discovered by Garrett Hawke, yes. But it’s my volunteer work as a Spirit Healer that’s just as important to the people.”

As Anders finally advances enough for the doors to begin pulling back into place, the couple can still be seen in the background. The husband takes a few steps in reverse, curls his body tight, then lunges at Lirene’s desk at full speed, seemingly intent on maiming himself. He stares wistfully at Anders’ back the entire time. The doors shut before the collision can be witnessed.

The shot cuts to the couple being escorted out of the building by security.

The wife smiles, “Anders is so hot right now.”

- 

The second clip begins with a snarling Fenris before his hand eclipses the screen. For a while, there is nothing but the sound of voices going back and forth and the clatter of a microphone boom being repeatedly swatted away. 

_“You will leave my premises immediately-”_

“-Fenris, its all right, you talked to us about _(muffled)_. We’re here with-”

_“-Remove that camera from my face or I will destroy it-”_

“This is not about the incident with _(muffled)_! This is _Threads of Thedas_ — we’re here about the shoot!”

There is a long pause, accented by the absence of all but black in the picture.

A nearly inaudible swallow. “…Ah.”

When the screen finally clears, Fenris is sitting on a pile of cushions in front of a vaulted window, curled up and sipping at an orange caramel frappuccino.

He raises his eyebrows in response to an unheard question, “’Do I take part in any volunteer work?’” he sniffs in disdain, “Do you ask in order to compare me to Anders? I would not believe his charitable act for a moment.” His lips thin into a sneer, “As soon as he became a model, I am willing to gamble he wanted to quit— but the saintly image served his publicity all too well.”

Fenris straightens his back a little, looks up, off, outside. “Let me tell you a lesson I have learned: People, much less mages, do not do things except for the good of themselves.”

Another unheard question.

“What are you talking about?,” Fenris asks, his head whipping back. Green eyes pin the camera as his face falls slack, “Never in my life have I visited an orphanage.”

Previously recorded footage rolls of Fenris visiting Kirkwall Orphanage.

In it, Fenris is seated on a couch, the thin fabric of its cover caked with dust, barely holding together by the stitches. A young boy runs to him with a book in his plump little hands. His eyes peer up at Fenris and widen immensely, perhaps to better absorb just being next to him. “Please read to me, mister Feneris. Mommy used to read to me and I misss herrrr!”

Fenris looks up from the boy, straight into the camera.

The lens zooms in, closer and closer, to document his expression—

Blank, like a halla in headlights.

“-I can show you the pictures,” he finally tells the boy, nearly stuttering in haste, “Would that help?”

The small face twists in confusion.

Fenris sighs, his shoulders dropping. He bows his head into his hands, threading his fingers through white hair.

Finally, “At least you knew your mother.”

The footage ends.

The scene cuts back to Fenris sipping at his frappuccino, muttering, “Really, what business do I have being in an orphanage?”

-

The following clip cuts back to Anders. He is no longer in his scrubs. The camera follows him as he stalks along a graveled path, kicking the rocks, fingers clenched against his hips in the denim pockets of his fitted jeans.  “So Fenris thinks my charity is just a publicity stunt?” His laugh is soft, derisive, “That doesn’t surprise me, coming from _him_.”

He stops in front of a pair of iron-wrought gates.

“Well let me show you something.”

The camera pans up to a sign at the top the gates, each letter of it welded into swirling script, proclaiming loudly in all capitals,

‘CENTER FOR CATS’

The building behind the sign is the size of the Viscount’s Keep.

Inside, cats of all ages, types, and sizes flood down a velvet staircase in a chorus of little mews. They are dressed in attires running the gambit— from argyle sweaters and streamlined tuxes to steampunk goggles and functional armor. One of the fluffier kittens missteps, flipping toward the camera and eventually falling back on its feet. It stills in shock, black pupils swallowing the irises of its large gold eyes. Its head swivels left and right, searching its surroundings for a perpetrator. Soon after, its mother trots across the foreground, picks it up by the scruff, and carries it off.

“Here at the newly opened Center for Cats,” Anders begins,  “Abandoned and feral felines are given a second—” he pauses to chuckle to himself “— _leash_ on life.”

He leads the camera crew through a room that is somewhat difficult to navigate— it contains not just a few cat trees, but an entire cat jungle.

“Just a few of the things we offer,” Anders says, pulling the camera along with him with one arm and sweeping the other out in a semicircle to demonstrate.

The shot pans along a long hall of windowed rooms lit from the inside with fluorescents, ”Built-in vets for up to date shots and round the clock care.”

Through one of the windows, a Dalish woman soothes an obese calico as she takes its temperature. The calico, fur wiry and sparse from age, scrunches up its face and twitches its tail. Otherwise, it tolerates a lubricated thermometer sliding up its hindquarters better than most.

Anders continues, “And here are our grooming stations, where we give our kitties well-trimmed claws that are cause for—” he makes the viewer wait for it ”— _paws_.”

He is about to resume the tour when he is stopped in his tracks: On one of the grooming tables, a persian kitten is having its fur dried. The kitten sits, hind legs planted firmly. It turns its upper torso toward the blow dryer— not only unafraid but daring— pushing its face into the heated wind. Whiskers and mane fly back and hover around its small ears like a halo. With a shake of its head, it raises a paw and kneads the air in a saintly pose.

Anders loses composure, “Garrett! Garrett Hawke! _Are you seeing this?_ I think I’ve found your next client! _Garrett-_ ”

The rest has been edited out.

Footage resumes in the Center’s kitchen.

“And lastly,” Anders says, voice more-or-less even again, “we have pulled in artisan chefs across Thedas to serve their canine pallets to _purrfection_.”

A plate of garnished salmon earns a close up. It has been cut into pink cubes and painstakingly arranged into a decorative pyramid. A siamese scurries into shot and eats the structure into ruins.  

Various perspectives of the building run on screen in a wrap up, “But the best part of all this, the reason the Center was started,” Anders’ disembodied voice explains, “is for people to visit, to play with the cats, and eventually— to adopt them into a loving family.”

In the final shot, Anders shoves his stubbled visage entirely too close to the camera lens, blocking view of anything else,

“Your move, Fenris.”

-

Back at _Maison de Broody_ , Fenris is being shown footage of Anders’ feline exploits off-screen. As he watches, his nose wrinkles, as if the frappuccino he’s been sipping has slowly turned into liquid nug shit.

“Excuse me, but what in the Maker’s name is that?!” he says after, “A ‘Center for Cats’?! That is entirely too big. That is not a ‘center,’ that is a cat _kingdom_.”

Someone behind the camera seems to be telling him something, but he waves them off, hand flapping at them like a tattooed wing.

“No, no, no. I don’t want to hear any excuses! I am not going to entertain this. This is nothing but terrible self-indulgence on his part.” He scowls, “He’s going to spoil those cats until they’re useless. I mean, honestly, how do you expect them to be happy when they’re adopted and go from _that_ ,” he gestures toward the sky through the vaulted window, “to hunting rats in a hole in Darktown and being fed stale kibble? That place is _ridiculous_. That place needs to be at least…” he flings his arms wide, then incrementally shrinks the distance between his hands, “…three times smaller than that.”

He huffs, “Besides, cats are terrible creatures. Mabari are far better.”

After making such a damning comment, Fenris sets his frappuccino cup, now empty, down on the wooden floor. Stretching his arms toward the ceiling, he shifts from sitting to sprawling himself across the cushions, interview be damned. The sun pours through the vaulted window and he squints in its brightness, the usual sternness of his face softening in its warmth. His elf ears prick up and back against his head contently; the tip of one flicking briefly as he finally closes his eyes.

He yawns, “Would you be so kind as to leave me for a few hours? I would like to take a nap.”

He curls into a ball. 

-  

Later that night, the camera crew catches Anders sliding inside his limo with another already sitting off-screen.  He wears a white t-shirt with torn sleeves— smattered in different shades of neon paint and soaked with sweat— and a band on his wrist labeled _‘Club Spicy Shimmy.’_ A glow stick is wedged between his lips while he buckles up; he spits it out after. Through the damper patches of his shirt, the viewer can glimpse at the chiseled musculature of his chest and stomach, can almost guess the shade of a nipple.  He gives the camera a brief glance, then slides on shutter shades; they hide the fact his eyelids keep drooping— one can nearly smell the jello shots on his breath.

“So he just threw you all out of his house and went to sleep?” he asks the crew. “Andraste’s soiled knickers, Fenris is such… such a bleeding terrible person,” he shakes his head, but his choice of large, ridiculous plastic eyewear detracts from his disgust, ”You know what I love— what I really, _really_ love about all this— it’s how everyone excuses his anti-mage sentiments just because he’s cute”

”So you admit he’s cute,” the friend off-screen says. It sounds suspiciously like Garrett Hawke.

Anders looks down and away from the camera as it zooms in, his shades slipping. He pulls the band from his ponytail, runs his fingers through sweat-damp hair. The lights of the city slide over his form through the limo window. His face is flushed, and perhaps not all from dancing.  

“You know, I’d maybe suck his-”

The clip switches.

-

Cacophonous drums. Dissonant guitars. Muffled, guttural vocals. On a balcony overlooking a pit of thrashing bodies, Fenris leans on a birch table that’s more distressed than his jeans. The surface of the table is littered with stickers of local bands, which would be notable, but nearly everything in the vicinity is.

At least an hour of texturing with hair wax has left Fenris looking stylishly bed-mussed. His cheekbones have been heavily contoured, sharper than the zippers cutting angles across his leather jacket. His eyelids are lined in black and smoked in coal. The contrast wildens his gold-green irises, hints at the intensity of the wolf behind them.

Despite the aggressive aesthetic of his surroundings, Fenris grips his standard bottle of Aggregio pavali, the label decorated with soft, swirling vines and dainty white lattice. Two other bottles lay on their sides on the table behind him—  strewn at opposite angles, empty and forgotten.

”I am not anti-mage; I am anti abuse of power,” he begins, lifting the bottle in his hand as if to give a toast, ”My suffering at the hands of Danarius— a _mage_ —  and the _spectacle_ that followed,” he takes a long, gulping swig of wine, “is unfortunately a matter of public record. I do not have to explain myself.” 

One of the camera crew tells him something. This time, instead of being completely inaudible, it’s simply drowned out by the music.

 _“What?_ Are we speaking of the same Anders?” Fenris sets his bottle down on the table. His elven ears prick up with his brows in unison, “He said _I_ was cute?” He nearly chuckles— instead, he clears his throat and pushes the back of his wrist against his mouth, hiding a smirk.

As another member of the crew speaks, the wrist drops against the table with a _bang_ and his mouth goes slack,

“He said he would _what_.”

-

The next morning finds Fenris in a makeup chair. Marian stands behind him, hand gesturing with her younger sister, renowned makeup artist Bethany Hawke. Bethany thrusts the butt of a makeup brush in Fenris’ direction, jutting it at his eyes, circling the angry veins clouding them pink and red. Her face falls; her shoulders slump.

“When did I decide to be a model?” Fenris cradles a hot coffee, face pressed against the lid of the cup. He snorts, “Finally, a question not entirely about Anders.”

A montage of old pictures runs on screen: A small Fenris; dark hair an unkempt mop, skin untouched by lyrium. He stands beside his only biological family, his sister Varania, hand intertwined with hers behind his back, protective. In another photo, his arm wraps around her, her red strands spilling over his shoulder as she leans her head against him. Her mouth is just a moment away from laughter, her open smile preserved forever.

“In truth, as an orphan adopted late in life, I had never felt particularly handsome. As an elf, even worse. In an era of our kind just breaking free of slavery, of struggling for life and acceptance beyond the alienages— in the push back by humans who wished not to see progress— I had no particular ambition. What elven child would? ‘Knife ear’ is not as popular a slur as it once was, but it is still very much used.”

Another photo places him as a teenager, kneeling on termite-eaten stairs in an ill-fitting rental tux. The corsage he laces onto Varania’s wrist is made out of tissue paper, the petals far from perfect, but handmade with time and care.  

“As I grew older, however, others would stop me in the streets to tell me how lovely I was. I did not believe them at first; I either pegged them as elf fetishists or informed them of their failing eyesight. After living so long in a society that told me I was unwanted, it was difficult to accept otherwise.” The footage stops to focus the camera on Fenris’ face, zooming in. He is staring downward, deep into his cup, “Even now—  even with my face plastered on everything— billboards, busses, magazines—  I still find myself having… difficulties.” He hums his throat and swallows, “In any case, that is when I met Danarius.”

The montage returns with a sole picture of him with his former manager. Fenris’ hair is no longer brown but stark white, lyrium lines spilling down his chin. As Danarius pets him like a dog, he wears a vague expression: one unable to decide if he is truly happy or just incredibly lost.

“Danarius approached me with the idea that, with a few cosmetic adjustments, I could make a career out of… how did he put it… ‘being ridiculously good looking.’ I ignored him; he pursued; I eventually gave in. Someone other than my sister was paying attention to me, and what more was I doing with my time?”

His earliest and most obscure work appears on screen— a kid’s breakfast cereal advertisement. Fenris crouches in the center of a kitchen dimly lit with candles; he wears a plush mabari suit that balloons his frame five times over and covers all but a hole for his face. Human children loom above, arms linked in a circle around him. They sing. Mabari-Fenris is their sacrifice; they await a verdict. He shoves his face into a bowlful of the cereal, small cocoa spheres crushing into the fibers of his costume as he chews solemnly. He surfaces and assures them, half-heartedly lifting his thumb up, that it is not kibble. A cheery, bright logo flashes on screen:  ‘Ferelden Friskums: _It isn_ _’t mabari kibble_.’

“In retrospect, I should have cared a lot more about the direction he was taking me in, but that has been discussed at length before— and, ironically, never by me. In any case, things began unraveling in ways better than I could have ever imagined.”

Another commercial runs, what many hail as the true start of Fenris’ career: A merman Fenris swims through the hole in a capsized boat to frolic inside of its hull. In a limber backflip, gleaming opal scales are presented to the viewer, his large tail fin fanning out. Embedded glitter and pearls frame his temples and jawline, the lyrium lines of his body illuminating the empty space. An array of fish follow inside, lured by the glow; in the hull they come alive with reflective light.

‘Notice,’ merman Fenris commands his audience, a school of minnows swirling around his arms and hips, ‘The fish of the Wounded Coast and I inhabit the same waters,’  he snatches a passing tiger fish by the tail and pulls it to his mouth, tongue following up a stripe before letting it go, ‘Our juices here are one in the same. Consume the fish of the Wounded Coast,’ his voice echoes in the underwater chamber, hypnotic as his now undulating hips, pointed suggestively toward the viewer, ‘and, by proxy, consume _me_.’ His hands search himself, ecstatic; they ruffle through his hair, trail down the nape of his neck, flatten against his protruding chest. As the ad fades to black, his knuckles knead into his gills; he slides them slowly— back and forth— against their wide, pink slits.

The camera returns to Fenris in his makeup chair.

“The fishing industry boomed. People began paying silvers to drink unfiltered water from the Coast,” he chuckles, “The success of that commercial was the first time I ever realized that even _I_ had talent. And I took great pride in that talent. I enjoyed, more than anything, excelling at something.” There is something of a smirk behind the rim of his coffee mug, “To tell you a secret: I absolutely loathe fish—  How any soul tolerates the smell, I do not know. But I delivered what was asked of me in that commercial. You cannot even tell how miserable I was; that is the level of professional I became.”

-

Anders lies on his bathroom floor, curled around the toilet as if caught in post-coital bliss with a lover. He does not bother to lift his head, his cheek flattened against the porcelain, ”You can’t tell how miserable he was because he _always_ looks miserable. That’s _his look_. I mean, what is it with Fenris?  It’s always that same, smoldering, _broody_ puppy face,” his expression contorts in a failed exaggeration, ” _Green Veridium_ ,” he nearly spits.

-

Relayed Anders’ criticism by the crew, Fenris shakes his head with a thin, patronizing grin, ”Anders claims I don’t have versatility, but Green Veridium — though it hoisted my status from ‘famous’ to ‘legendary’— is not all my extensive portfolio has to offer. For example, Le Wolfe,”

He whips his head toward the camera, brows pinched above his nose, lips curled in a pout, gaze at once distant and yet beckoning.

“Tevinter Fugitive,”

He whips his head toward the camera, brows pinched above his nose, lips curled in a pout, gaze at once distant and yet beckoning.

“Lyrium Ghost,”

He, again, whips his head toward the camera, brows pinched above his nose, lips curled in a pout, gaze at once distant and yet beckoning

“And then I have spent months perfecting Lethendralis, which I am not allowed to discuss— Marian would kill me,” Fenris chuckles. Though Marian nods behind him, her usually impish expression is stone, her thumb slitting across her throat.

Fenris juts his chin out, “It should surprise no one when I say Anders is a hypocrite. He always does that thing with the sad, raised eyebrows.”

Something is said off camera.

“What?! You want me to illustrate? Anders did?!” He narrows his eyes; his cheeks hollow, sour, “No, I will not. I will not…” he sputters, “stoop to his level of looking… stupid.”

-

Anders rolls onto his back, counting on his fingers so hard they nearly snap, “Green Viridium, Le Wolfe, Tevinter Fugitive, Lyrium Ghost?!,” he throws his hands up in the air, “They’re the same face! _The same bleeding face_ , for Maker’s sake! Doesn’t _anyone_ notice this? I feel like I’ve chewed too much Elfroot!”

_~~~~~~~_

_Threads of Thedas_ cuts to a commercial break, but not before announcing a national poll on their website, _‘Who has the better nose? Fenris or Anders?’_

A man stands in the midst of the Hightown crowd, obscured in darkness. He wears an overly large hoodie, face shrouded, hands digging deeper into pouch pockets to hide white marks. The screen glints off of his thick designer sunglasses, which should be conspicuous in the nighttime— but, like a shadow in a lightless room, he inherently remains unnoticed.

The show resumes with Varric, _“Who do you think our viewers will pick?”_

 _Garrett laughs,_ _“Anders’, I hope.”_

 _Marian scowls at her sibling, overly loud, then giggles,_ _”Fenris’, obviously. I mean, have you even seen that majestic plank board in profile?”_

The man parts from the mass of onlookers; their whistles, hoots, and shouts. He avoids the main roads and instead navigates the alleyways with practiced finesse. By an overfilled dumpster, a group of thieves count the night’s winnings: busted shopping bags leaking animal skins and purses lead-heavy with coin. One thief approaches the man, snatching the shades off his face for his pile. One look into green eyes and the sunglasses drop.

The thief turns tail and flees with his friends, muttering something about _‘phased through the Empress’ chest and nearly ripped out her heart.’_ The man sighs, continues on his way. The shouts of Hightown’s spectators still echo at his back.

Fenris is tired.


	2. Part Two: The Shoot

Morning comes. The alarm bleats for an hour. Fenris listens, eyes half-shut, still in the past night’s hoodie. Balled up on disheveled satin sheets he’d never bothered crawling under.

Another fifteen minutes pass without hitting snooze. He pushes himself up into a slumped, cross-legged sit. His hand fishes through his pillow case, extracts his cell phone. Fingers fumble under long sleeves as he pads the numbers.

One ring. Then two.

Marian picks up the phone, “Hello?”

“No.”

A pause on the other line. Confusion, “Fenris, dear, what do you mean— ?”

“-No.”

Another unsure pause. Then breathless laughter, “You are doing this shoot today, love.”

He grimaces, “I don’t believe so.”

“I do believe _yes_.”

He whines groggily. Huffs. Snarls and pounds his fists into the mattress, “But _why?_ ”

She sing-songs, “Because I said so~”

Fenris seethes wearily, “You are my manager, not my mother.”

“With that kind of tantrum, I could be your mother, too.”

A grumble, “You and Garrett are far more in need of parenting than I,” he shakes his head, “No, if Leandra could not help you, then nothing short of Andraste will.”

Giggles jingle in his ear.

Fenris swings his legs over the edge of his unkempt bed, presses his bare feet against chill, mahogany tiles. Coffee; he desperately needs coffee.

She asks, “So what bothers my favorite hot mess this morning?”

His reply is forcibly conversational, “I saw _Threads of Thedas_ last night.”

A long, suffering sigh, “Oh, my dearest brooding darling— any press is good press,” she explains all too cheerily, “And at least _this_ drama is better than the kind you _were_ getting.”

His eyes narrow, expression withering as he lumbers his way downstairs, “So you keep saying.”

“I say so because I grew up in this business; I know what I’m doing.”

Fenris meanders into the kitchen. Stops and sways before the refrigerator door. He regards it for a solid minute before remembering— No, coffee does not dwell there.

He sighs, “I suppose experience grants what you say _some_ merit. But this…” his grimace returns, “…This is not the way I had envisioned my comeback playing out.”

“Now, now,” a low hum, “I don’t have to tell _you_ how things seldom come in neat, ribboned packages.”

When he — very pointedly— doesn’t reply, Marian falters slightly, “…It really bothers you that much?”

Again, Fenris lets silence speak for him. He pulls a can of instant grinds out of the cupboard, dreading the taste but craving immediacy. Sugar dust and dark crumbs litter the countertops when he finishes. He lets it sit, has no plans to clean it. The mess reminds him of another unpleasant conversation, one with Marian’s twin:

It had been the night after a long wine binge. Garrett was visiting with sister when he noticed the state of Fenris’ mansion, _‘Why don’t you just hire a live-in maid?’_ he’d asked, _‘Wages and conditions are more than fair these days. You can ask Orana; she seems very happy with us.’_ An innocent comment, not meant to offend— but as someone who had never grown up wanting (or even imagining the luxury of) enlisting his kind into servitude, especially at this transitional age— Fenris had been _very much_ offended.

Fenris’ mood sours more at the memory. He thinks of Varania, who barely calls for more than money now, and resents again what entitlement and ambition does to good people. The twins were too much alike.

In this terse quiet, Marian appears to have read his mind.  Her laughter is soft, “I’ve let my cut-throat nature get the better of me again, haven’t I?”

Fenris, biting, “Perhaps.”

“I… am truly sorry,” she says. “I’m not Danarius—  don’t you worry— I won’t keep pushing you to do things that you’re clearly uncomfortable with.”

Dryly, “Are you so sure?”

A pause, “We are… unfortunately already scheduled for today—  And with all Thedas at our heels to see it through or burn us at the pyre—  But _after_ , Fenris—” the steadiness of her voice returns, “I promise you won’t have to worry about Anders ever again.”

Fenris relents; he has only ever heard her speak this way in private— in a gentleness completely uncoupled from her public persona, “I appreciate that.”

The microwave dings. The cup smokes in warning, but Fenris pays no heed, common sense abandoned in his quest for caffeination. The liquid stings as it burns the tip of his tongue. He briefly muffles the phone against his hoodie and curses. Luckily, Marian doesn’t seem to hear.

“You know, Garret would… _really_ not like me telling you this, but…” she hesitates.

He plops an ice cube in the mug, spitefully ignores the aching of his tongue.  “Out with it.”

“You know, you aren’t the only one.”

He blows. Takes a sip. Much more tolerable. “What do you mean?”

At last, her bubbling laughter returns, “Anders hates this drama just as much as you do.”

The hand on his mug stills before he can take another drink. The words linger behind, hovering between his ear and the phone, prickling against his brain like static. The thought comes; he hears himself exhale slowly: _So Anders tires of fighting, too._

No one is around to see, but Fenris covers the small upward curve of his lips with his cup, “Is that right? Hm. Perhaps this shoot will not be as horrible as I’d imagined then.”

An odd, delicious warmth, much more needed than coffee, fills him from inside.

-

 Fenris’ newly found enthusiasm wanes as he arrives on set. His dressing room is barely spacious enough for him to fit inside of, let alone sit and allow a styling team to do their magic. Clothes of jarringly incongruent fabrics and colors hang in staggered clumps on a rack: Feather-lined plaid. Drake skin with neon stripes. Industrial zippers cutting across peach polka dots. Some outfits don’t even appear to be in Fenris’ size.

Soon, he finds that ‘styling team’ was too ambitious an idea to hope for. A janitor comes in to take out the trash, points at a small sink with a mirror above it, and bluntly informs Fenris _‘It’s time you readied yourself, boy’_. The only other items in the room that can be seen is a towel and a roll of toilet paper— there are no hair products or make up. Fenris thanks the Maker he’d brought his own from Bethany’s. He picks an outfit out from the rack that seems like it would fit and doesn’t look for much else. Doesn’t look in the mirror— reasons that his options are so terrible, there really is no point. Goes for a clean, natural look with his makeup and hair. Moves on to the set.

Green canvas floods the scene—  the same eye-straining shade used in movies for special effects. It fills the atmosphere with haughty recklessness, says to Fenris: _We_ _’ll spend hours trying to edit this mess in post later— right before we just give up and call it a day._ There is no furniture, no props. Nothing. Only green.

The only small reprieve he can find in this chaos is the photographer; a Rivaini woman with eyes that shine like loot. Thick waves of dark hair bounce as she darts from point to point, her heavy jewelry glinting in the lights. She adjusts the aperture on her camera, does a test shot. Changes her film speed. Shifts the angle of her reflectors. More tests. Fenris nearly admires the way she feels out her environment, how she strives for the perfect balance between lighting and camera—

—Until an Antivan elf sneaks into the room and cups her ass from behind. After a stunned laugh, the woman turns and strokes her gentleman friend’s face—the pad of her thumb following long, black ink lines. She wiggles her abundant derriere in his hands and smirks, all former hints of professionalism abandoned.

Fenris approaches the pair, disregarding their purring hello’s ( _”My dear Isabela.”_ ) and the way their lips nearly brush as they say them. He wedges himself between the two and clears his throat. “Excuse me. This is a photoshoot,” he says through teeth, though he barely believes it himself anymore. He stares down the man with a tattooed face, something about him rubbing Fenris particularly wrong, “Please leave and resume your intimacies… somewhere else.”

The painted elf laughs heartily. “Ah, if it isn’t Fenris. I should know about this shoot, my incredibly striking wolf—  I helped arrange it, after all.” His eyes brush against every contour of Fenris’ body, “I’ll be directing you and Anders today. Isabela will be photographing, of course. You may call me by my name— Zevran, or if you wish…” a glint in his unnervingly visceral gaze, “… anything else you like.” His voice drops, “I prefer something dirty.”

Isabela chuckles. They exchange approving looks.

The news hits Fenris like a Mind Blast.

Zevran glances back at him, sees that he has paled. Thin eyebrows arch. “Are you well, friend?”

Fenris tries to remember to keep standing, opens his mouth in half-formed words. The shock finally ebbs, giving way to darker things: Maddening frustration with all he’s witnessed. Volatile anger, like sulfur boiling through his veins.

No, he will not lie to this lascivious fool. He will not pretend all is ‘well’ when everything here is so clearly _un_ well.

He dodges Zevran’s question with his own. His tone bites— salt on a festering wound, “Enlighten me, if you will: What are your plans for this shoot?”

It is Zevran’s turn to stand frozen in heavy silence. The look on his marked face— Fenris wonders if anyone has ever, in all his life, dared question his methods. “Plans? What plans? There are no plans.”

_"What do you mean, ‘There are no plans’?!”_

His lyrium nearly flashes. All heads in the room turn toward them.

Zevran’s laughter is overly loud. He sweeps his hand over his chest with dramatic flare, “You wound me. I am a _professional_.” The smile he wears feels patronizing— Fenris does not care for it one bit. “This is avant-garde, my friend. Plans… complicate things unnecessarily.” A mouthed aside to Isabela, meant to be private: ‘ _That was good, no?_ _’_

“Not particularly, no.” She busies herself with her camera. The barest of smirks appears on her lips.

Fenris walks away before he has to reassure everyone he’s not still under a blood mage’s thrall.

On his way, his shoulder knocks straight into Anders.

-

Both of them move to apologize, then stop. The time window for an acceptable _‘whoops’_ slams shut. They continue to stand at the site of their collision, shifting dumbly.

A damp towel wraps Anders shoulders like a shawl, smelling heavily of shampoo and aerosol hair spray. It covers a heavy coat that dwarfs his form quite unfavorably, tied around the waist with a flimsy strip of fabric like a robe . His hair is pulled into a sporty ponytail. Blond lashes, gelled with clear mascara, flit about as Anders focuses everywhere in the room that isn’t Fenris. His mouth spreads into a grim line, the contour of his makeup hardening his passive expression. _Equally unimpressed with the state of things here,_ Fenris thinks.

He remembers his phone conversation with Marian—  ‘ _Anders hates this as much as you do_.’ — allows the realization to lift his mood once again. Perhaps this was the perfect time to offer an olive branch, to let Anders know he understood— and all too well. But how should he go about it?

“So. Ah, Anders… Would you believe our managers entertained this mess?” Fenris attempts to laugh, but the noise gets caught in his throat, “And this Zevran—  he _clearly_ has insufficient skill.” Commiserating with jokes. A good chuckle to appear non-threatening. Yes, that should do fine, Fenris thinks. Inwardly pats himself on the back. Perhaps his people manners are not as nonexistent as originally thought.

Anders finally looks at him, pins him with narrow eyes. “You have no respect for anyone in this industry, do you?”

Shock courses through Fenris’ system for a second time that day. His lungs feel tight. He asks, needs to be sure his pointed ears aren’t failing him. “Are you… Excuse me, you are being quite serious right now?”

“And why wouldn’t I be?” Anders crosses his arms, the towel tucking underneath. "Like the man said; it’s avant-garde. There’s _supposed_ to be artistic experimentation.”

“You were listening?” Fenris asks, surprised.

Anders shrugs. “Came in at the end of it, but I heard enough.” His glare weakens, but it’s still there. “You know, we’re supposed to be working _with_ these people, Fenris. They’re our peers. Our _equals_. You should consider—  for just once in your life—  being something less than incredibly rude.”

And there it is. The puzzle pieces have formed a picture: Anders hasn’t been at all unimpressed with their cataclysmic surroundings— he’s been unimpressed with _him_.

Meanwhile, in Fenris’ peripheral, Isabela sticks her tongue down Zevran’s throat.

Some better part of Fenris knows that this is exactly the situation he has been trying to avoid. That he should rise above the instinct to bait the hook, to escalate this difference of opinion into a real, full-blown fight. That he should just apologize, and then everyone here can move on— however miserably. But Fenris is a man of pride. A man who has made this career his sole livelihood, who has suffered for it with lyrium scars as his testament, and who has still— out of sheer passion— continued on. He is a _professional._

There is nothing— _nothing_ —  respectable about this shoot. And that Anders, so fresh to the world of fashion and yet still somehow so full of opinions, is actually _defending_ it— The words fly out of his mouth before he can stop them, “You have not the slightest clue what you are talking about, do you?”

Anders bristles. “Excuse me?”

Fenris scowls, shakes his head once. “I am not aware of what Garrett has arranged for you in the past, but I will remind you that I have worked in this industry for years— _years. Never_ have I come across something so unprofessional, so _insulting—_ My damned kibble commercial had more planning than this!” He flings a hand at the bright green canvas. “Look around you, Anders. Do you not see? We could do a better job ourselves! All that would be required would be a clothing rack from a thrift store, some instant film, and a motel room in Lowtown slums.”

From somewhere a ways off, he hears approving whistles.

Anders sighs heavily, tries to change tactic and temper his patience. “Hold on, okay? Take a breath. Just help me bleeding understand here, all right? What aren’t you getting? The Hawke twins wouldn’t set us up for failure. We were told from the start. It’s avant-”

“— Avant-garde, Avant-garde!” Fenris parrots. He throws both arms into the air. “Avant-garde does not mean we’re in a bloody improv troupe! Especially with my career on the line!” 

The outburst seems to throw Anders back.

Fenris exhales before he can speak, lets both hands drop. “But of course, _silly me_ — this ‘incredibly rude’ elf should know by now not to expect _literally anything better_ from _anyone_.” He looks down and away for a brief moment. He fingers the lyrium lines itching underneath the cuffs of his jacket, braces himself for retaliation—

It never comes. Instead of anger, curiously, Anders’ face softens. His honey eyes sadden, and Fenris can barely stomach it; he’s reminded too much of strangers passing by the orphanage, watching Varania and himself play outside with nothing but dirt and sticks to entertain them.

Anders says to him finally, as if forming a first impression, all over again, “You have no faith in people; I do. You’re terrified to try and fail, to be hurt again. That’s the difference between us.”

Somehow the statement stings worse than any venom Fenris expected. He snorts softly, “Oh please. Cease behaving like such a martyr.” He crosses his arms, ducks his head to stare at the floor, kicks against it with the heel of his foot. “Marian told me you were tired of this sort of drama. That we both were. I should not have listened to her.”

He doesn’t know what to make of Anders’ small laugh, “Fenris, you _are_ the drama.” 

-

Marian and Garrett check in. The latter rips the towel off of Anders like he’s a boxer in a ring and asks Fenris rhetorically, “Ready to hit the bin with the rest of yesterday’s news?”

Marian shakes her head affectionately. “So you think your client’s too cool for school, do you, Garrett? Well, I have news for you,” her smile flatlines at Anders, “he isn’t.”

A beat passes. They both share a thunderous laugh, then shake hands as if enjoying a friendly little league game. Fenris resists demanding on the spot what the hell they both are thinking.

By their hungry looks as Zevran and Isabela approach, he no longer wishes to know.

Fenris exhales heavily, tries to loosen the tension in his back and shoulders. He decides this shoot is best left like this morning’s kitchen counter; a disaster to be dealt with later, but given up in defeat now. A certain amount of numbness is required to keep sanity at times, he knows. A shame, he thinks, there is no Aggregio pavali here to ease the process.

While their managers busy themselves flirting and making competitive jabs at each other, Fenris finally takes some time to appreciate what he and Anders are both wearing a bit more— though ‘appreciate’ isn’t at all the right word for it:

It remains unforgivable how Anders’ coat reshapes his body in such an unflattering way. How it makes any ass he has disappear straight into the Fade. Yes, they had to dress themselves—  and with patched together garbage, no less— but Fenris worries no one has told Anders about the magic of a silhouette, and that offends him deeply. Hiding away that musculature should be a crime worthy of the old gallows.

Now that the towel is off, he can see the coat’s color; it reminds him of faded rainbow hair with natural roots grown in. The fabric seems unable to decide if it's made with feathers or tufts of fur, or perhaps a cluster of old doll wigs sewn together.

Next, Fenris gives himself a proper look over. He finds the jacket he’s thrown on has been irritating his wrists because it’s edged with matte white sequins. He undoes globe buttons to take a peek at the turtleneck tank underneath. The cotton fabric is marred with what seems to be a juice stain. Another stain, exactly the same in size and shape, sits diagonally from the first. He spots a third— meaning that someone, somewhere in Thedas _intentionally_ designed a pattern of drink spills. Fenris is at a loss at what to do with this information. He only knows he wants to be naked again, miles out of range of these clothes, as soon as possible.

Both of them are wearing spandex leggings. Fenris would argue there are far worse things they could’ve picked from the rack—  if not for the fact that they are both wearing _the same_ spandex leggings, stretched over obvious outlines of underwear.

Marian and Garrett finish their chat and leave the scene together for the moment. If experience serves Fenris right, they will be back sooner than one can blink with lunch and frappuccinos.

“All right, All right,” Zevran purrs, “All magnificent bodies on set. It’s time to work some editorial magic!”

Isabela whoops loudly, exuberant. “Are you ready, loves?”  She hops over to large twin speakers, turns on “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Wending Wood. Above, a ceiling of oversized fans begins to blow.

“I like this song,” Anders says.

Fenris sneers, “Of course you do.”

Anders half bows to Fenris, the ends of his coat sweeping the ground as he extends his palm toward the set. ”Age before beauty.”

Fenris narrows jade eyes, quirks a brow. “I am not old.”

“Oh? But your hair is white.” Anders smiles, unreadable again. He rises a bit too close to Fenris’ face and flicks a silver bang from his forehead.

Fenris snaps his teeth. Anders whirls away before the bite can connect with his fingers, stakes his claim on the green set.

Zevran claps his hands together rhythmically, “Give me clowns, give me lion tamers. Now! Go go go!”

With all he’s witnessed today, nothing surprises Fenris (A literal circus? How fitting). His nose still scrunches, a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Anders swings open the door to an imaginary clown car, squats inside, compacts himself into a tumbleweed of legs and arms. The coat spreads out around him like a deflated tent. “What are you waiting for? What ever happened to— ” he lowers the register of his voice, mimicking Fenris’ velvet drawl,“— _‘I absolutely loathe fish, but that is the level of professional I became.'_ Hm? Where did that Fenris go?” Anders turns fake keys in a fake ignition, makes squeaking honks through the side of his mouth as he pounds on the imaginary horn.

Isabela dances around him with the camera like a duelist. She thrusts forward and comes in tight, flees backward and parries a bad angle, dodging to the left and then a little to the right. Each shot is a split decision.

“Yes, Anders!” Zevran roars, raising clapping palms above his head, “Marvelous! Perfect!”

Fenris huffs derisively, stalks his way over to the set. He lifts his leg and toes Anders out of the clown car, then leans over him and yanks the rope through the loops of that ridiculous jacket. He’d show them all he hasn’t lost his touch. The fabric belt curls around his hands and he gives it a few harsh flicks. It falls noiselessly, limp and lame— behaving more a like a dance ribbon than a cracked whip— but the straight line of Fenris’ back and his tight, domineering gaze make all the difference. He is a master of the feral, a tamer of the wild itself. In the center of this ring, no beast would dare disobey.

Anders falls into the role of a lion with unsettling ease, scuttles around on all fours. Growls and bats at the air. He attempts to maul Fenris’ neck before being flicked between the eyes. The fabric hits him several times as Fenris commands him ( _‘Down, you overgrown cat. Down.’_ ) before he settles onto his hind legs, blowing air through his nose.

“Is it hot in here? _I_ _’m_ hot in here,” Isabela muses aloud. She pulls a hand away from her heavy camera to tug at her shirt collar. “Are we sure the fans are still on?”

Zevran answers her with a hearty laugh. “With any luck, things should get steamier, no?” He turns toward Fenris and Anders again, "Tigers, now! Give me tigers!”

Without thought, Fenris springs onto the floor and lands with grace. He prowls the perimeter of the set like a hunter in sight of prey.

“Is that supposed to be a tiger?” Anders allows the oversized coat to fall from his shoulders, revealing a leotard-like top of lightning bolt stripes. The bolts sweep across him in ironically fitting shades of orange, white, and black. “’Le Wolfe?’ More like ‘Le Meow,’ isn’t that right?” He lifts a ‘paw’ off the floor and licks the back from wrist to knuckle. “Let me show you a tiger, Fenris. It’s called a catwalk for a reason.”

“Oh?” Fenris glowers, “Is that because you intend to cough up a hairball?”

Anders tilts his head back and roars, shakes out his ponytail as if it were part of a mane. Fenris roars louder, flicks the tips of elven ears. They circle one another on the green canvas, each stalking after the other’s imaginary tail.

Anders stops and wiggles his hips in Fenris’ face. Fenris notices too late, gets a face full of spandexed ass.

He tackles Anders to the ground.

They roll. Snarl. Hiss. Bite the air between them. Swat at each other’s hands. They fight to pin the other beneath themselves, to be the one on top when the shutter of Isabela’s camera clicks.

And Isabela’s camera is clicking furiously.  

Fenris gains the upper hand, Anders struggling up against him but ultimately unable to throw him off. Fenris relishes the small victory, feels every part of Anders squirming intimately underneath him—  forearms clenching against his tawny fingers, lungs panting heavily between his thighs. A storm begins to twist below his navel, one he hasn’t felt in a very long time. Was it the feeling of attraction, or simply having control? The animal in him thrives. He squeezes tighter.

Finally, Anders goes slack in his grip, concedes.

The sudden change is so odd that Fenris forgets to be the tiger and remembers himself. He looks down, dreading having to apologize to another fearful face.

Instead, what he sees is wonder.

“How are you doing that? I’m heavier than you.”

“Blood magic,” Fenris answers, as if the words carry a putrid smell. “Did I harm you?”

“No,” Anders chuckles, “Although,” he slows his breathing, blows off a strand of hair that’s gotten stuck to his mouth. He licks his lips and eyes Fenris hard, “We should _definitely_ do this again sometime.”

_“What.”_

“Acrobats!” Zevran announces, breaking his train of thought before it can leave the station. “Acrobats, now!”

“What are you doing?!” Isabela protests.

“Moving on to the next scene,” Zevran answers, as if obvious.

Isabela waves him off. “I mean, do we have to, though? This is quite the pretty picture. I can do a lot with this.”

Zevran’s laugh is a low rumble. “No need to worry, my favorite shutterbug. I know what I am doing. Would you not like to see how they stretch, how they bend?  Acrobats!"

The sequins of Fenris’ jacket have embedded themselves into his wrists in semi-circles, deepened from his time crawling around on the floor. It chafes his lyrium far more than usual. He pulls it off and throws it directly in Anders’ irritating, confounding face.

“Yes, Fenris. Strip for us!” Zevran cheers. “All the better to see that godlike, lithe musculature!”

Emboldened by the praise, Fenris stands and readily frees himself of the drink-stain shirt and confining spandex, kicks his shoes off and shucks away his socks. Nothing remains but his boxers, which he elects to keep on. He threads his fingers together and extends his palms toward the ceiling, stretches out his left side and then his right. He prepares himself for feats of gymnastics he’d managed easily while brainwashed, stubbornly ignoring the thought he may not be competent at them now.

Anders hurls the jacket from his face and turns to Fenris, seemingly prepared to fling another playful insult— but his mouth never fully opens. He appears unable to move from the canvas floor. Instead, his gaze trails the white lines on Fenris’ skin, follows the way they curl and swerve around his arms, how they stretch out across his chest and throat like tree branches.

Fenris finds himself smirking. Somehow this appreciation feels very different from the kind Zevran had shown him earlier. Was this how besting a rival felt? Of gaining confidence in his abilities again?

In the interlude between them, Isabela wanders over to Anders, stamps a foot next to his head impatiently. “Are you going to let him show you up like that? Come on now. Get up. Strip!”

Anders finally rises, keeping his eyes directly on Fenris as he peels away nearly plastered-on clothes.

Fenris is learning that seeing Anders dressed only in briefs on a magazine spread— and now witnessing the same thing in person— are two _very_ different experiences. To watch those chiseled features in motion, to see them rise and dip with each breath. To stand close enough to glean the hinted flush above his collarbones, to smell the light sheen of sweat on his skin— sweet soap spiced with medical elfroot, an undercurrent of spirit magic and elementals. The hurricane begins to blow in his stomach again. He begins to panic. Could he honestly say this interest was purely aesthetic? Appreciation for a fellow model? Since when did he start thinking of Anders as his peer?

“I’m going to be doing a backflip over you,” Anders announces as he stretches. “I know our relationship is rocky, but I’ll trust you to not be a bleeding ass and actually catch me. Are you ready?”

Fenris is quite good at feigning boredom. “Throw anything you like at me. I am prepared.”

Just where in Thedas had Anders learned to do a backflip?! Surely, he’ll send them both to the Maker!

With only a short sprint towards Fenris as warning, Anders pivots, curls, then vaults fearlessly into the air, bending the fan winds with his magic to elevate him even further. Fenris catches him by the mid-back as promised, supporting him with both hands and then only one. Anders extends a leg out, curls in the other. The shutter on Isabela’s camera goes wild. They face each other, noses brushing.

Gravity weighs on Anders’ golden ponytail, a jubilant grin on his upside down face. Looking at him now, at how bright and full of life he is, Fenris considers for the first time there may be more to his job than pride and reputation. That maybe he shouldn’t have hated Anders, so new and unspoiled by this industry, for catching on to something he had missed under Danarius— that even this, this absolute Blight of a shoot, could actually turn out to be...

... _fun_.

“Kiss! _Kiss!_ ” Zevran blurts out, losing any professional composure he could have been credited with. “Oh my. Perhaps I—”

“— No no, love. You’re right,” Isabela interrupts, stoking the flames as she continues taking pictures, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

At that moment, Garrett and Marian rejoin them in the room, a carton full of frappuccinos and brown paper bags in their hands. Without even stopping to ask just what had happened while they were gone, they set their purchases down on a table. They join in on the chant, pumping their fists in mirrored unison, “ _KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS!_ ”

Anders grips one hand against Fenris’ peck and gathers the other in frost white hair, pulls himself in until their lips meet.

Anders tastes of smartass comments and a playful, vibrant grin. Of a healer’s tempered compassion and of rough sex on a desk. Of a strong sense of justice and yet painfully bad puns. The storm tears through Fenris entire body, howls as it whirls in his head.

He forgets to hold Anders up, to stand, anything. They both clatter to the floor.

He breaks Anders’ fall, his vision fading into black.


	3. Part Three: The Dressing Room

As Fenris slips back into consciousness, the paparazzi greets his ears, camera shutters snapping together at high frequency, loud as raging hail on a tin roof. Strong, bare arms extract him from the discord, dragging him backward as fast as they are able to. His nostrils fill with a now familiar combination of herbs, soap, and magic. _Anders_ , he realizes with somewhat puzzled relief. The healer’s voice rings out above the crowd, filled with more vitriolic rage than Fenris has ever heard in it, “GET OUT. MAKER, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ALL OF YOU? THIS MAN NEEDS SPACE. _HE NEEDS TO BREATHE._ ”

His vision settles in. Anders wedges them behind the dressing room door, uses force magic to shut it, locking their unwanted guests out. Fenris still finds the space claustrophobic, but it seems far less so now.

When Anders turns to check on him, his mouth is marred with blood, a stream of it pouring from his nose. He ignores it, lies Fenris on his back, grabs a fistful of clothes from the rack to elevate his feet.

“You should heal _yourself._ ” Fenris bats at the fussing hands checking his vitals, pointedly letting Anders know with each swat that he is _awake now and well_.

“Good to know your airway’s clear,” Anders retorts, continuing his physical evaluation. Only when he finishes does he relax, and only just slightly, “Will you allow me to do a quick check with magic?”

“I appreciate your asking but _I am fine,_ ” Fenris warns. “Spend your talents on someone who requires them. Namely, I will say again,  _yourself._ ” He stares Anders' nose down.

Anders laughs. “Well, can’t win against you on _Threads of Thedas_ if I keep this thing up, now can I?” He finally moves to the small sink, rinses the blood off, heals the bridge back into place.

The door rattles with the weight of bodies clamored up against it, blocking them in. Fenris hears the shouted accusations ( _’Anders, did you do it on purpose?’_ ) and bristles, “How did they manage to get here so quickly?”

“I don’t know.” Anders shrugs, sits down next to him. “They must have a sixth sense.”

“I wonder if that sixth sense is a Hawke.”

Anders’ entire body shakes as he holds in laughter. “The twins can be terrible opportunists, can’t they? I think there was a rumor once—  Someone swears up and down they saw them tear the trousers right off a dead man to sell for coin.”

Fenris lowers his eyes, feels them darken. “I don’t much care for rumors anymore.”

Anders lifts his chin up with a finger, gives him a warm look. “Neither do I.”

Fenris lets the finger stay.

“You know,”  Anders begins, “We told our managers we were done with drama, but… we still held onto our bitterness a long time, didn’t we?”

The past tense of the phrasing is more comforting to Fenris than he could have ever expected. “I suppose I was jealous,” he admits, “You got into modeling with less stakes, less pain attached. I got into all this public drama with Danarius and suddenly there you were, rising up like the Blight to replace me,” his smile is thin, “to take away everything I’d worked so hard to build.”

Anders shakes his head. “What?! You’re bleeding _Fenris._ I could never replace you!” He flings his hands into the air incredulously. “Do you even realize how your work in the Wintersend catalog inspired other elves? That many we now see acting in television have said—   _verbatim_ mind you— that they owe _you_ for their start?” He sighs. “Fenris… Deep down you are a good person. Rightly frustrated and with a load of issues, but good. I’m sorry I didn’t realize that at first. I just…Well…” He pauses, “With your attitude toward me by the time I came on the scene, I’d thought you an insufferable prick blind to everything around you.”

Fenris stares up at him, not knowing whether to feel insulted or concede some validity to his point.

“That came out wrong, didn’t it? I’m sorry. You know me, when my mouth starts running I just— ”

Fenris stops him with a hand. “No need.”  He sighs, hesitates. Decides to let it all go. “One other thing I was jealous about…” He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth, “I was never able to help people, Anders. I _tried_. But I was never cut out for it— not like you seem to be.” He folds his arms over his face, hides his shame in the darkness of them. “I once told an orphan he should have been happy to know his dead mother… instead of just admitting to him that I have a great trouble reading.”

“You have trouble _what_?” Anders gasps softly. “That whole clip makes so much more sense now.”

Fenris nods, still shielding his eyes. “Marian dictates everything I need to me. My adoptive parents were poor Tal-Vashoth and could only afford to send one of us to school. I chose Varania for them.”

“Well, Fenris. That’s proof enough there’s good in you,” Anders says, nearly whispering in awe. He lays a gentle hand on Fenris’ shoulder. “You want to know a secret? I’m… not a _perfect_ saint. Still human,” he assures him. “You were right about the cats, you know. I’ve kept the center open so they have constant company, but I adopted all of them. That way, they’ll never go unhappy in a smaller living space. But…” A pause, “To be perfectly honest with myself, I wanted them all from the beginning, anyway.”

Crossed arms fall from Fenris’ face down to his sides. He finds himself mouthing wordlessly at Anders, _‘You adopted. All. Of. Them.’_  

“Yes. And named them,” he nods, “If I ever have a wedding, I’d really like for them all to be present. Ser Pounce-A-Lot can officiate. He’s been ordained through the internet.”

Fenris blinks, stunned.

Then Fenris laughs. He clutches his lungs and openly, fully laughs. “Really? Well, I should like to visit them all some time, then.”

His joy is contagious, seems to fill Anders like a mug of hot cider in wintertime. “I would like that,” he says.

Fenris turns his face toward the door. Slowly, his laughter dies away. “A pity we are both stuck here.”

Outside, the media continues to knock and bang. 

-

Hours go by. It’s impossible to truly tell, but to Fenris, it feels like night. Shoves and shouts at the dressing room door never lessen. The mob demands answers to what is happening, to know whether or not he and Anders are fighting— one even boldly asks if the silence means they’ve killed each other yet.

Fenris and Anders take turns keeping watch, making sure that the door doesn’t break open and unleash an Exalted March. They give up on having any personal space in the small room, pilfer more offenses to fashion off the rack to use as a makeshift mattress. They huddle against each other’s backs— still bare from the shoot and now cold—  when there aren’t enough clothes left for a sheet or even pillows. They drink water from the sink and pray they won’t have to relieve themselves down the same drain later.

More time goes by. The situation doesn’t change. The growling of Fenris’ stomach wakes Anders from a restless nap.

Anders says finally, “I’m going out there. We can’t just sit here and starve.”

“You will not.” Fenris’ gut clenches for a reason more than hunger, inordinately upset by the thought of Anders alone against the horde. “Hasn’t this experience taught you anything? The only regard these leeches have is for the story you bring, not your person. Crack this door an inch and you risk being trampled or suffocated.”

Anders grimaces.

Fenris insists, “Stay. They will eventually tire of this and leave. This will all be over soon.”

“Will it?”

They sit in silence, staring at the door.

Anders sighs. “Dying in here, dying out there. What’s the difference?”  He moves to stand.

Fenris stops him, grips him by the wrist. “You idiot. Do not be reckless. This may take a few days, but it _will_ pass.” He studies his fingers around Anders. His gaze sweeps up the line of his pale arm, finally rests on his stubbled jaw. He falters only a moment more.

With a sharp tug, he pulls Anders down, gathers him into his arms, rests his forehead against the nape of his neck. His voice is softer, a nearly pleading promise behind it: _things will turn out all right, if you would only just,_ “Stay with me.”

Anders stiffens in surprise before he slackens, limbs relaxing, taking easily to his touch. He leans against Fenris’ chest. “So what do we do if the door breaks down?”

Fenris huffs lightly against his skin. “You’re a mage.”

The reply earns him a harsh flick on the knee. “I’m not about to hurt innocent people, Fenris.”

“You call _that_ innocence?” Fenris rolls his eyes, a single brow angling sharply. He dips his head and shakes it between freckled shoulder blades. “If it comes to that, I will keep us safe. With a flash of my lyrium brands, some rabid mouth foaming for good measure…”

Anders’ jaw nearly falls open. “That would ruin your career.”

He sniffs, the whisper of a smile on his face. “My career has managed to come back from the dead before.”

“Yes, but—” Anders is about to argue when he stops and tilts his head. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what? I do not hear— Oh.”

Silence. Pure and complete silence. Now that Fenris notices it, his ears tune in toward the door like antennae on an old radio.

Garrett’s voice comes from the other side, low and conspiratorial, “Are you two all right in there?”

Marian’s is next, “Fenris, is Anders giving you that blow job he mentioned?”

When Fenris answers, his voice is loud enough for all to hear, “Unfortunately, no.”

Anders gives Fenris’ thigh a swat. He turns his head with a grin and mouths, _‘You bastard.’_

“Ah. Good,” Garrett says, as if thoroughly unconvinced of any goodness in Fenris’ statement. “Can we come in, then?”

Anders stands, opens the door for them.

The warmth in Fenris’ lap fades. His arms feel achingly empty.

“How did you two ever get them to go away?” Anders asks the twins, once they are fully inside.

Marian begins, “Oh, Varric came through for us—”

“—As always,” Garrett says. They both pause to nod in solid agreement.

Marian continues, “— He used his connections to hire a pair of actors that looked just like you two— well, from behind, at least.”

Garrett chuckles. “All we had to do was to point after them and shout, ‘There they go! They must have found a secret door! After them!’”

Marian pantomimes wildly. “’You’re letting them escape! What sort of amateurs are you?! You couldn’t catch a nip slip on camera if it belonged to a Broodmother!’” She giggles. “It was great fun.”

Fenris lifts himself off of the floor, moves to stand next to Anders. He regards the two siblings with his lips pressed into a thin line. “I thank you both. Truly, I do.” He lifts his hands, palms facing upward. “But what now?  Surely they will set up camp outside our homes once they see through this distraction.”

“You are welcome to stay with us,” Marian offers. 

“Funny thing,” Garrett says, “There actually _is_ an underground passageway here that leads directly to our mansion.”

No one asks or explains just how the twins first came across this knowledge, and Fenris is certain he is all the better for it.

-

After wandering through the old,  underground wine cellar for half an hour (a vinegar cellar, really) disguised in clothes wrinkled from the dressing room floor (an improvement on their designs, Fenris thinks) the twins at his heels, showing great sensitivity in their humor (‘That bottle’s not for you, dear!’ ‘Neither is that one!’ ‘Not that one either!’) — they arrive at Hawke Estate.

Orana happily greets them. She serves them honeyed meat, spiced apples, and piping hot tea. Her presence in the house still doesn't sit well with him, but he is too exhausted to deny her services and begin a confrontation—especially when the twins are being gracious enough to lend them their home. She leads them to the guest room of the house, Marian cutting in quickly and apologizing that it is the _only_ available guest room and he and Anders will have to share.

“They want us to fuck,” Anders muses as soon as the door closes, still sipping at his tea. “First they want us to fight and now they want us to fuck. Or maybe they’ve wanted both all along.”

“It seems a far more likely explanation than this mansion lacking any room.” Fenris strips down and slides into their bed, turns on the TV, flips through the channels.

“Knowing them, they probably have cameras set up just in case.” When Anders finally turns toward him, he only sees the peaks of bare shoulders above the covers. “Are you... Are you _naked_ under there?”

“We are professional models, Anders. At times our job requires nudity.”

“Don't be a smartass. You know what I mean.”

He smirks thinly. “These brands of mine are sensitive, and those clothes are abominations to me for more than just their looks.” He folds the sheet back just enough to expose his underwear. “But do not worry, my virginal friend, I am still vested in my boxers.”

“ _Virginal._ ” Anders chuckles softly. But by the way he looks almost disappointed, either by the presence of his boxers or by the word ‘friend,’ Fenris decides to test his luck.

“Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me, exactly?”

“That our managers are encouraging... closeness.” Fenris pulls the blanket back over himself, sets the remote down on the night table. “I haven't felt attraction, sexual or otherwise, in quite a long time,” he gathers in his knees, “But I feel it for you.”

Tea gets caught in Anders’ throat. He coughs and hacks, beats his own breast with a fist. “Fenris!” he finally chokes out, “I had no idea you were such a smooth talker!”

“I am not the one nearly drowning on my own tea.”

Anders clears his throat. He hums, his eyes twinkling. “True.” He is about to answer Fenris when he notices the program running on screen.

In light of their escape from the media, the television station has elected to replay their rivalry footage from _Threads of Thedas._ Both of them watch, the scenes passing like ghosts in the reflections of their eyes, haunting them, heavy chains weighing down each of their expressions.

Fenris fidgets to himself, gains the courage to finally ask, “I wish to know what becomes of us when this all blows over, Anders. When we are both back out there, with our audience, with all their lies and expectations. Will they make us hate each other ag—”

He is cut off by a kiss, sweeter than any he has ever known, rivaled only by the first time he’d ever tasted it. He breathes it in, pulls Anders close, digs his fingers into shoulders hard enough to leave flashing marks when they finally part for air.

Anders promises him against his ear, low and breathless, “Never again.”


	4. Epilogue

“Welcome back to _Threads of Thedas,_ folks. This is your host, Varric Tethras, here with the winners of this year’s Power Couple in Fashion poll. ”

Anders and Fenris sit together in easy comfort on the small couch, hands clasped between their thighs.

Anders’ hair is gathered in a low ponytail, tied with a shimmering ribbon of burnt crimson. A button-up dress shirt contours his frame and a winged collar hugs his neck. In lieu of a bow tie, the collar is circled by a thin chain of dark copper, the silhouette of a cartoon cat face at its center.

Fenris wears a black lapel vest decorated in a velvet relief of filigree designs, a chain matching Anders’ looping around the waist like a belt. Cut off sleeves, attached to an otherwise pristine white blouse, poke out from underneath. At his collar sits a proper, small bow. Glossed white hair has been slicked back, away from his face, exposing his lovely, sharp features.

“Glad to be here,” Anders says, his smile soft. It widens as he feels a small squeeze against his fingers, a thumb caressing the back of his hand.

Fenris keeps quiet. He doesn’t betray this gentleness with his expression.

Some moments between them are meant to be kept private.

Varric returns Anders’ warm grin. “Almost hard to believe how things turned out, the way you two used to fight,” he chuckles. “Fenris, your first shoot together— you weren’t very impressed with things to start with, were you?”

Fenris snorts at the memory. “‘Impressed’ isn’t the description I’d have used, no.” The corner of his lip quirks upward. “But without that experience, I might have never gotten closer to Anders.” He tilts his face toward his lover, the usual stone in his eyes liquefying into molten jade. “And, amazingly— against any odds I could have ever imagined— he was right about having faith in our peers. The people at _Rogue_ truly surprised me with their final product.”

On screen, images from the shoot—  titled _Media Circus_ — pass. The outrageous colors of their wardrobe have been desaturated into lively shades of gray that contrast perfectly. Tacky designs and trashy fabric lend themselves flawlessly to a grungy, dystopian setting: a dilapidated funhouse overrun with jungle vines and flora made out of gossip headlines.

Fenris speaks over the footage, “It’s quite difficult to believe that once, all of it was nothing more than green canvas.”

Each pose they had modeled forms commentary on the text around them— a clown seeking an audience’s laughter, a lion tamer wrestling control from his beast, tigers fighting to survive the other, acrobats doing literal flips for the crowd.

The last photograph is of their kiss. A light radiates from their bare bodies, eating away at the surrounding rumors, demanding that this, that _only this_ — their all encompassing connection— be the focal point.

The scene dissolves, the camera’s attention back on Varric. He says, “I’ve never publicly disclosed this before, but the Hawkes let me look at the location of the shoot before the main event. Thought they’d have to get a blood mage to fix _that_ mess.” 

Anders laughs. “Merrill did an amazing editing job, didn’t she?”

Fenris agrees, “She’s rightly well paid.”

Varric nods. “A good start to many more jobs featuring you two. Including a _Fish of the Wounded Coast_ sequel. Maker!” He whistles lowly. “Who wasn’t waiting for _that_ to drop?”

With another dissolve transition, the commercial runs. The spectral face of a full moon is wrought with obscuring clouds of shadow. It hangs above the mast of a large wooden ship.  Thunder quakes the vessel. Torrid waves beat against its hull, flooding the deck. A strike of lightning cracks the boat in half.  Wreckage falls to the sea in flames, sputtering on impact, smoke blooming up into the sky.

Electric lines of lyrium cut through the smog. Opal scales crest and sink in the waves. Fenris flits to each cluster of debris, pupils thinning into slivers. His irises are gleaming, hungry.

He surfaces on a large, broken crate, only to find his webbed fingers pinned by talons. A creature between bird and man perches above him— Anders.

In an echo of Fenris’ glitter and pearls, crimson sequins define the outline of Anders’ torso and neck in avian scales, rubies beading along his face under wind-tussled gold hair. Blood red plumage canvases his shoulders like pauldrons, fans out behind his hips in a peacock’s tail. His head bobs and weaves, twists at odd angles like an owl.

Each force of nature meets the other, leaning in until their noses nearly touch, locked in a curious but predatory gaze.

A message flashes above them in seductive kerning, _‘The Wounded Coast: Now serving poultry.'_

Varric fades back on screen. “I hear something _very_ interesting happened behind that set. Looks like the bird finally caught his fish? Or was it the other way around?”

Anders huffs theatrically. “Well _excuse me_ for agreeing with most of Thedas that, after seeing merman Fenris, I need to alleviate some urges. Preferably gagged with my own costume on the dressing room floor.”

Fenris snarls and palms at the rising flush in his face with his free hand. “Must you do this _here_ of all places?!”

“What? When you get _that_ good a shagging, it’s kind of nice to brag.” Anders bounces his brows at him and grins. “Plus you get so flustered. It’s adorable.”

Fenris simmers through his fingers, “You will pay for this dearly later.”

“Well, I should sure hope so!” Anders brightens. His back straightens like a pet on its hind legs, begging for a treat.

“You will be the death of me.” Fenris squeezes against Anders imperceptibly again, as if to remind him: _It wouldn_ _’t be the worst of ways to go._

Anders doesn’t look at him, but his eyes squint fondly at the edges: _I know._

The sound of Varric’s chuckle lures them back out of their small, shared world. “That’s not the only bit of gossip we’re confirming tonight, though, is it, Blondie?”

Anders nods.  “Fenris has an announcement about his latest look. For starters, I can vouch for it being nothing like his other ones!”

Fenris knocks Anders’ knee with his own, almost aims a glower at him—  but the dumbly satisfied look on Anders’ face has him nearly snickering instead.

Fenris quickly clears his throat. "With Marian’s blessing—” the camera pans briefly toward the live audience,  where both Hawke twins stand at the center of the shot, obscuring everyone else’s view, jumping and waving at their clients like proud parents, “— I will finally be unleashing what I’ve spent the better part of this year perfecting. Right here, right now, on this show.”

The camera returns to Varric. “You heard right, folks, so don’t change that channel. What else would you be watching, anyways? _Proving Ninja Warrior?_ ” He laughs. “Here comes the exclusive, Thedas-wide premier of Lethendralis!” 

_~~~~~~~_

On the streets of Hightown, the night crowd packs under the towering screen to watch.

The living room of _Threads of Thedas_ splits away at its center, its tiny couches and cozy fireplace swept off screen as if nothing more than theater props. The set dims. A long catwalk in the shape of a ‘T’ rises up from below, white marble in a black abyss. The lights return in flashing strobes.

Fenris and Anders reappear, closing in from the sides and converging on the middle. They pivot towards the front in tandem,  striding ahead confidently, arms nearly brushing. At the end of the runway, Fenris swings Anders into his arms by the waist and they dip, free hands clasped as if in a tango, Fenris obscured by Anders at his ear. 

Anders’ eyes twinkle as he plants a kiss on the lobe, whispers something for only him to hear.

They rise, unfolding outward, entwined hands lifting above their heads. Fenris finally reveals his face to the viewer.

The Hightown crowd gasps, unsteady on their feet.

Merchants slash their exorbitant prices down to coppers. Thieves carefully tuck stolen goods back into their owners’ satchels. Babies, previously red-faced and wailing tiredly at their parents, now hush with transcendent peace.

The streets glitter, and not only with the lights of the city—

But with the gleaming white teeth of Fenris’ open, jubilant smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazing art by the lovely Six_Lily_Petals, who I cannot thank enough for coming up with and drawing such an incredible prompt for Glow Bang. A cheerleader on my darkest days, always eager to read and comment on what I had, she has been an absolute joy to work with and a complete treasure as a person. 
> 
> I also want to thank Mnemosynea, of course, for putting this event together and for being so patient with me. 
> 
> This fic started out as the fastest outline I had ever written in my life, then somehow grew into a three-part monster with an epilogue when I wasn't looking. I wrote it while moving to a new city, dealing with some personal catastrophes, and beginning a new job requiring 12 hours out of my day Monday through Friday. A lot of love and hard work went into it (and as my new roommates have affectionately fussed— not a lot of sleep), and I hope that, if you've stuck with it until now, you've enjoyed it. 
> 
> Thank you for your time!


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